Ruth raised her eyes. "Could you, Andy?" she said.
"Yes. I could give it as I could my life. I would take no recompense, I would just give, and do anything. Ruth, suppose you knew a truth about—about—well, about me; a truth that, if it were known, would be the death of me. Would you tell, or—or would you save me?"
It was a rigid moment for the stern little maid. Her eyes fell, then were raised again.
"I—do—not—know," she panted, "but a lie is a lie, and I should expect to be punished."
"So should I for any dishonorable thing," agreed Andy. "That is just it, but it would be my willingness to do it, and then to suffer, that makes the difference."
The two were standing near the end of the Pass at a small gate, and as Andy ceased speaking a sound smote their ears that turned them pale. It was the sound of many horsemen galloping wildly onward.
"The king's men landed at Kip's Bay this morning," gasped Andy, clutching the gate, "and they do say that Douglass's men are not strong enough to defend the point."
It was Putnam's five brigades; the boy and girl only knew they were patriot troops. They had been ordered by Washington to make for Manhattanville before retreat was cut off.
Young Aaron Burr was acting as guide. The master had once pointed him out to Andy, and the boy remembered the face well. Boldly and fearlessly he was riding, and Andy's voice broke into a cheer as he recognized the noble face. The leaders halted. There were several roads ahead; which was safest and quickest? Burr ventured a question.